Saving Stella

I was recently adopted by a cat. Months ago this little white scraggy looking creature started hanging around my house. Out of pity, I put out my tuna cans for consumption. She'd eat, then skulk away, and maybe come back a few days later. This went on for a while, and then she disappeared. I think perhaps to have kittens, who I don't think survived, as she, at the time, looked quite pregnant and walked with a limp.

Fast forward to about two weeks ago. My little friend had returned, and this time regularly. I bought actual cat food and she camped herself in front of my house, not moving a great deal. Her eyes were usually half closed and glassy, she was filthy, and quite lethargic. Then one morning I went to open my front gate to leave for school and she ran across my front yard, startled by the noise. However, her "run" was lopsided and clumsy, as if her left rear leg wasn't properly in the socket. She looked terrible. I had to do something. I could no longer watch this creature suffer on my doorstep.

I came into work unable to concentrate. My co-workers suggested we ask the people in the Animal Husbandry department (their version of a Veterinarian) if they could help. When I walked into their office, I met the "vet", a 28 year old woman who looked no older than 18, about five feet tall and 100 pounds soaking wet. They were kind and the vet's assistant spoke decent English. She gave me her cell phone number and told me to call her if the cat continues to get worse. They offered to come to my house and check on her. I breathed a sign of relief. Thank God for animal lovers.

Later that afternoon I found her in the back lot behind my place. There was blood on her tail and she could not walk. She looked like she hadn't had access to fresh water in weeks. I called the vet. They arrived with medical supplies in hand and we spent a good 30 minutes getting her into a box and had to inject her with a sedative to calm her down, scratches and bites covering our arms. She was so dehydrated her skin stuck together when we pinched it, and although her leg was not broken, she howled when we touched her hip. After much negotiation and translation we hoped in a cab to take her to a vet across town that had the proper X-Ray machine. Once there, they tried to insert an IV into her arms, but her veins had already collapsed and the only way to get water into her system was to inject it directly under her skin. That seemed to work, thankfully. The X-Rays showed her leg was dislocated from the hip. She was, however, too weak for surgery of any kind.

We decided she needed to recover back at the clinic on my campus. In the cab ride there we almost lost her. She laid in a cardboard box on my lap, and I never took my hand off of her. Her body temperature was getting quite low, and she wasn't moving. My dormant maternal instincts kicked in and I swore to myself this cat was not going to die on my watch. I sat there, in the dark, pouring rain and traffic outside the window, helpless tears begging to fall down my checks, promising her she was going to live. Willing her to keep breathing.

Two days later, after constant visitations and love, the vet suggested I take her home to recover at my house. The responsibility was huge, but I couldn't say no. As we were about to put her in the carrier I had purchased for the transfer, I was informed that in addition to her dislocated leg, she also had a hernia. The poor thing must have been so uncomfortable. But again, there was nothing they could do until she got stronger. I was apparently the first "native" speaker they had had as a client, so before we left they took pictures of me, got my contact information, and asked if they could come to my house on occasion to practice their English. I said of course. These women saved an animal's life and I owed them so much. Before I left the vet looked at me and said, "I'm so glad I met you". The feeling was mutual.

I've had her for 6 days now, and the first 4 were quite stressful. She barely moved and ate sporadically. I had to force fluids into her mouth with a syringe, which she hated. I kept an eye on her, giving her love and affection as much as possible while still trying to respect that she is a wild animal. Then, two nights ago, she turned a corner. She went from resenting me for capturing her to purring like mad every time she saw me. She now wolfs her food gratefully and walks around my back "yard" on her own. I'm not sure what happened, but I'm a lot less fearful to come home at the end of the day. I named her Stella for her strength and will to live. She reminds me of the Tennessee Williams character in so many ways. She's a survivor, and a welcome addition to my life.

I don't let her in the house because she is indeed dirty and loves to sit among the plants and bugs in the back garden. But I now eat my meals and check my email in the back with her, and we sit down each night and chat. She likes to watch the rain and lay sprawled out in the sun. My goal is to let her stay at my place for another week or so, and then take her back to the vet for the necessary operations. I'm also going to get her fixed. She doesn't need anymore dying babies, as I'm pretty sure if she did have kittens, they didn't make it (however, now I know it could have been her hip/hernia causing the lopsided stride). This whole process has been expensive, but if I don't take care of her, no one will. She chose me. I will not let her down.

I will eventually let her back out into the "wild", but only when her body can handle it. When I leave for Chicago, I hope to find a local family to look after her.

It's so nice having another living creature at my house. I've come to accept (and admit) that I'm fairly lonely in my huge house alone. I recently installed cable t.v. because I couldn't stand not hearing conversation around me any longer. And the four types of HBO don't hurt.

In other news, I've been buried under books about US History and culture. I'm teaching two sections of American Studies this term and have never been so excited about a class. I've been in constant touch with friends from home, asking for help in making this course as exciting and rich as possible. I've ordered quite a few movies and books online and literally dream about their arrival and reception by my students. I'm also teaching Drama again, but this time Shakespeare and pre-modern works. Challenging to say the least. I cannot wait!

My class schedule allows ample time for travel this semester. Next weekend I'm planning to visit Borneo with the other Courtney in Malang to drop in on some orangoutangs in the jungle. I have a good feeling about my last four months. I'll keep you all posted.

A Hermitic Mid Year Report

Blaming Indonesia is counterproductive. It’s not an entire archipelago's fault that I’m stick. Again. The island of Java wouldn’t even blink if I left. But I can’t, and I won’t. The show must go on.

I feel like a fraud. You see, I like teaching. I do. Sometimes I even love it. Every job has aspects that are unpleasant. With teaching, it’s the planning and the grading that I detest. When I’m in the classroom, or working with a student one on one, I’m happy. When I’m talking directly with my pupils, watching recognition flash across their faces as they “get” something for the first time, I couldn’t ask for anything more. But when I have a stack of papers to grade, I freeze. I literally have to force myself to do the work. And it’s a painful process.

I’m not a terrible teacher. Sometimes I’m even decent. There have been moments when I would dare say I was kind of good. However, to be honest and risk looking like a selfish, horrible person, my primary reason for applying for this Fellowship was financial. And when you do anything for the sole purpose of money, nine times out of ten, you realize that although money makes the world go round, it also can never, ever, buy contentment. Lesson learned.

A ways back I read in some book (probably The Power of Now) that “dis-ease” is caused by an imbalance in your life. We all know stress makes us sick. I also believe that living the life you were not supposed to live also makes you sick. Very sick. Finding balance, no matter where you live, is a life saver.

What gave me balance in Chicago was having the privilege to teach during the day, and then having the pleasure of going to rehearsal at night to work with a group of artists: creating a piece of live theater. I’ve come to understand that yes, I do use theater in the classroom, but more than that, both teaching and theater are harbingers of change. That look of comprehension that flashes across a student’s face when you’ve finally explained something in a way they can understand is the same as the look on an audience member’s face when they walk out of a stunning piece of theater with eyes glazed and a small smile dancing on their lips. If the teacher is good, and the production is good, you walk away from both the classroom and the theater a different person. And that is what I want to do with my life. I want to be part of that process in others. I want people to walk out of my classroom, or my theater, altered, and better for it.

But I need both. I need teaching (and my students) to keep me intellectually challenged, grounded and sane. I need acting (and the audience) to keep me creative, inquisitive and expressive. With only one and not the other I tip over, a scale with one end up and the other on the floor. Hence my recent fever of 102, stomach cramps, and porridge for a week while watching Grey’s Anatomy and weeping into my hoodie. Tidak bagus Berne.

Let me backtrack (I know, I do that a lot) and say that I admire teachers as much as I admire Meryl Streep. My senior year English teacher in high school, Mr. Malone, will remain infamous in my memoirs. He taught me the beauty of literature and poetry; the prowess and relentless acumen necessary to properly dissect a piece of true genius like an e.e. cummings poem, or a Shakespeare play. And Dr. Nike Imaru, my fierce Theater teacher from England will always live in my mind to remind me to push myself, find the answer, dig deeper and never give up searching. Teachers are heroes. I may not be into pedagogy, or type up my lesson plans, but I have the spirit and drive required for the classroom. And I’m able to see where I need improvement after a lesson doesn’t go as smoothly as it should have. I’ve never been short of that.

Why the excuses? This duel title of actor/teacher carries with it some explanation. People want you to chose. They want you to pick one and focus on it. But I’m saying it’s OK to want both. To need both. I’m an actor who teaches. Except, in Indonesia, I feel like a teacher who used to act. And it’s wearing me out. The jig is up.

This brings me to why I got out of bed to write this entry. Today is the half way point. I arrived five months ago. I have five months remaining. With my latest bout of illness I seriously considered going home. I’m tired of the misdiagnoses, the “maybe it’s this, or maybe it’s that, but we don’t really know and have no way of knowing, so take some mylanta and sleep”. I miss Western medicine (I know, I’ve lost a lot of fluids), the certainty of science. I miss tests that come back conclusive. I miss doctors NOT laughing at you when you say it feels like there is a hole burning through your stomach. But that’s what I signed up for. I asked for this. I said yes to ten months of teaching in a developing country where there is no real theater.

In times like these I have a few tactics. Movies and tarot cards are my main sources of insight. When I can’t go to rehearsal, I pull three cards and listen. The first card is where I’m coming from. The middle card is the bridge that I must cross, and the last card is where I’m headed. As usual, Mr. Crowley was right on. The Queen of Disks was the first, and boy can I relate to her right about now. The Hermit fell into the middle. And at the end awaits the Wheel of Fortune. According to the little book inside the tarot card box (“Instructions for Aleister Crowley’s Thoth Tarot Deck”), The Hermit signifies: “Illumination from within. Divine inspiration. Wisdom. Prudence. Circumspection. Retirement from participation in current events.” Damn, he’s good.

Last night I watched the adorable and uplifting Julie & Julia and received confirmation that I am indeed where I’m supposed to be. Indonesia is my Hermit card. This is a journey. Sort of like a very long intermission. But like any good theater goer (or teacher) you do not leave when the actors are taking a break, or when the students look confused. Hedda Gabbler does not walk off stage if she’s just not feeling it. Blanche Dubois does not suddenly tell Stanley he’s right and leave the apartment to go get herself a life. That is why Julie Powell made all 524 of Julia Child’s recipes; because she said she would.

I’m not going anywhere. At least, not for my remaining five months. This show most certainly will go on. And when it’s over, there will be many more. This Hermit has some balancing to do.

You give me Fever

It's been awhile, I know. To backtrack: December was an incredibly busy time with out of town speaking engagements, end of semester duties, and travel planning. And then the Dengue hit. Hit me hard. From now on I swear by mosquito repellent.

Dengue Fever is spread by tropical mosquitoes that bite during the day. There is no vaccine against this, nothing to do besides wear protective cream and arm your house with anti-mosquito oils and plug-in killers at every outlet. About a week before leaving for my semester break vacation, I was exhausted and burning with an internal fever that made me feel like a caged animal wanting to claw out of her confines. I went to my acupuncturist for treatments, and talked to friends who took me to pharmacies for pills. I thought I had worms or was maybe hosting a parasite. And then I showed up at my weekly dance lesson, unable to stand up. Toto, my teacher, suggested he and his wife take me to see one of their friends who happens to be a doctor. Thank God he did.

The first word this doctor said to me while shaking my hand was, “Fever!” I was burning up. My eyelids, feet, knees, everything felt like it was on fire. I don’t think Peggy Lee was referring to this when she sang the infamous “Fever” as it was nothing like the moody pop song indicates. I wanted to pell off my skin and bath in ice cubes. I wanted to jump out the window and float to Antarctica on an iceberg while licking icicles. Dr. Saraswati asked me some questions as I sat slumped over in a chair, and left the room to get my “treatment”. I should mention that this woman runs an alternative clinic and has cured cancer with her esoteric remedies. Normally a fan of non-Western medicine, I was quaking with fear that my trip would be canceled and I’d die in Indonesia, evaporating on the spot. Dengue effects your brain. My thoughts were as rapid fire as my pulse, and as foggy as smoke from a house fire. Another reason why I didn’t update my blog in December.

My task was to drink a concoction every three hours around the clock until the “medicine” ran out. I was handed a plastic bottle filled with brown liquid labeled “Kopi 2”. I was told to mix three table spoons of this liquid (which was a mixture of Chinese herbs and instant coffee) with honey, adding two egg whites and one egg yolk. Raw. She put my first dose in front of me and told me to either plug my nose or close my eyes and don’t think as I swallowed. I did my best, but the smell of raw egg and the consistency of human mucus made me gag. Bring brave, I finished my cup and grabbed the nearest candy (which was waiting next to the cup) to get ride of the vile taste. She smiled and said I had done well. This was to be my only job for the next few days. Rest, and drink this. When I asked her how much I owed for the treatment, she replied that I was a friend of a friend and to not worry about payment. Which is ironic, because I actually have health insurance for the first time in years, and I’ve not used it once.

I had my blood drawn three times over the next week, and my red blood cell count did rise due to doctor’s orders. Two days after seeing Dr. Saraswati, I was a crying heap of heat, aching all over and wishing I could just sleep (in a bed of ice). My dear and wonderful friend Wayan had to stay by my bedside for 24 hours straight, waking me up to feed me my “eggs and coffee” every three. Without her, I’m not sure I’d be here, typing this. I had the kind of Dengue that causes internal bleeding due to burst capillaries in your lower intestines, and 5% of those cases end up being fatal. It was just my luck that I was bitten by a really evil mosquito.

My vacation was postponed three days as I rested and started to feel confident walking across a room again. Wayan cooked for me and felt my forehead, making sure I didn’t exhaust myself in my stubborn attempt to be healthy. Miri and Toto also bought me groceries, stocking my fridge with these electrolyte drinks that I was instructed to swallow regularly. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to my two Indonesian families for being with me while I was so sick. At almost 32 it’s no less scary being ill when you’re so far away from home.

Instead of spending 3 days in Bali before Australia, I was there for less than 24 hours, leaving Supafly on her own in our hotel room to grade papers. Once I arrived, I knew I was not back to my old self, but I put my faith, once again, in non-traditional healing remedies and pop culture. For those of you who have read the best-selling novel Eat, Pray, Love you will know who I’m referring to when I say I went to see the infamous Wayan in Ubud. Jules and I walked into her “clinic” (more like a restaurant/massage parlor/organic heaven) and spent the next five hours receiving treatment. I told her about the Dengue, and she made me drink a series of five different herbal teas with leaves plucked from her garden. Before I knew it, I was sweating out the last of the Fever. Everything we put in our mouths was straight from Mother Earth, and it all had innate healing powers that I could actually feel restoring my system. She then read our palms and did a body/energy check, explaining where our systems were weak, and telling us how many babies/husbands we would have.

The Balinese take their time, and we were not the only “patients” in her care. She was able to walk between tables of people, giving us all what we sought in due time. That being said, nothing was private, and my future was read aloud in front of total strangers who walked passed wrapped in sarongs post bath. To make sure all ran smoothly, Wayan had cooks in her kitchen making organic vegetarian meals and boys that massaged and bathed her clients. We were the last to spend time in the upstairs portion of her den, which was an unforgettable experience. I’ve been receiving massages since high school, but I’ve never been adorned with garlic, ginger, herbs, oils, and other organic material while being massaged by three, yes three, young men at once. One on each side, and one at my head/shoulders. This was all in an open air environment, with Jules laying in the bed next to me and the sound of people walking up and down the worn wooded stairs with more supplies to use on our bodies. At one point Wayan stood between our tables as we lay in total relaxation and joked “In your country, they don’t give you three men at once, do they?” We all laughed. Certainly not. To cap off the experience I was then escorted to the bathroom, where I was bathed by one of my massage boys and an elderly woman, wrinkled and brown, in the most loving and non-threatening way imaginable as hot water cleansed my skin and the Fever circled down the drain.

I walked away knowing the Dengue had left me for good, but as the evening wore on, I could feel a head cold creeping into its place. Part of the massage was meant to drain your lymph nodes, and I was still filled with toxins. I tried to drink tea and rest, but by the time I woke up the next day, I was sick. This time with the run of the mill head cold. I took this illness to Australia with me, hoping I could sleep it off.

We spent an extra day in Bali due to a mechanical malfunction on the plane and were put up in a five star hotel by the airline for 24 hours as compensation. I took that opportunity to sleep, but I was angry at my body for failing to recover, and wanting more than anything to be Down Under instead of down and out. Once again patience was my only tool. I had to keep breathing and hoping that I’d heal.

We arrived, this time with Cooky in tow, in Sydney on Christmas Eve. I was still under the weather, and took in the sights of Balmain, the neighborhood we were staying in, slowly. By now I was going through a box of tissues every two days and looking like I’d survived, well, dengue fever, but I tried to keep my spirits up as we celebrated an orphan Christmas with a few Brits and Aussies also away from home. Being that it was the middle of summer in Sydney, it was perhaps the most surreal holiday I’ve ever had, but I was happy to be on a new continent.

Something I noticed right away was the release of tension in my body once arriving in a country where I was no longer the “other”. Here I could wear what I wanted, do what I wanted, and no one even thought to look at me twice (unless I opened my mouth, in which case I was asked what part of the States I was from). What also may have added weight to my awareness was the fact that I was in the process of reading Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali (thank you Penny--I couldn’t put it down either) and although it made me grateful for living in a more or less “liberal” Moslem country, I still had over 5 more months under the watchful eyes of Allah. Being in Oz was exactly what I needed. My defensive armor began to fade within an hour of Sydney living. And you can drink the water Down Under. I practically ran from drinking fountain to water spout with abandonment and glee, skipping and splashing like a lunatic.

The only discomfort was the change in price from Indonesia to Australia. While in Sydney my accommodations were mostly free, thanks to Jules’s friend Natalie and her house-sitting gig, and that helped, but my US dollars no longer went a long way. That said, it was worth it, as my days were soon filled with moments I will treasure for years to come.

I’m saving the savory moments for my good old fashioned pen and paper journal (as I still guard the private and dole out the public in spurts), but I will touch upon the next leg of my journey and let the facebook photos tell the rest.

December 27th marked our departure to Hunter Valley, which is located about 2 hours outside of Sydney. We rented a car for the journey (which I drove for a brief 15 minutes before realizing that I had the parking break on...not used to cars after months on a motorbike) which proved stunning as we passed through forests and rolling hills. I saw my first kangaroo on the drive, and had a smile plastered on my face the whole time. Once in the Valley, we checked into our YHA room and picked a bunk bed (I’d been staying in the bunk bed of a five year old boy in Sydney, so I was used to this by now). Then it was off to wine tasting for the next few days, which I did gingerly as I knew drinking was not conducive to improving my immune system. Not a huge fan of wine (read: I have a low tolerance), I did enjoy the many varieties of vino and the craftsmanship that went into the making of said bottles. The people that ran the vineyards were an eclectic sort, and by the end of our day long tours, one of the owners was calling me “Chicago” while I giggled (I said I have a low tolerance) and poured the extra liquid in my glass into the spittoon while his back was turned. I hated to waste all that talent, but I am still a cheap date after all these years. At least now I have the capacity to stop myself before things get ugly (ie: before I fall asleep after two glasses).

Back in Balmain I stocked up on products you can’t find in the third world and continued my detox. While receiving a facial, the owner of the spa commented that not only were my pores clogged from not having access to hot water for four months to wash my face, but I had parasites in my chin. Apparently the products in Indo strip your skin of its natural moisture, so mine was over-producing oil to compensate. And that oil was building up because cold water does not dissolve it properly. I will now be wearing bug repellant AND boiling water on a daily basis.

New Years Eve proved low key with the most exciting part being the view of the stunning fireworks over the Harbor Bridge. New Years Day was spent at Manly Beach, which is just a ferry ride away from Balmain. The water temperature was a little below my comfort level, but I did find some shells to take back to Chicago, and I swam in a rock pool, which was, well, just a pool made of salt water. January 2nd was spent exploring more of the city, including the MCA and the Botanical Gardens (both lovely). On the 3rd we took a train to the Blue Mountains and hiked what was probably the most beautiful trail I have ever seen. Unfortunately the weather was misty and unseasonably cold, leaving the view from steep cliffs up to our imaginations. I felt like I was in the rain forest while also being cuddled by some ancient creature who only let us see 15 feet ahead of our noses (probably best considering my fear of heights). I also felt like I was alternating between scenes from The Neverending Story and Lord of the Rings, minus the Luck Dragon/Hobbit parts.

Sadly, the damp air and arduous hike left me with yet another chest cold, and I flew to Uluru feeling asthmatic and in desperate need of the desert. Our first night in Ayer’s Rock we went on a stargazing tour. From the middle of the Outback you can see both the Northern and Southern hemisphere stars at once. This was breathtaking. As an astronomy nerd I ate up the information our guide gave us about the constellations, planets, and solar systems. I could have looked through telescopes all night. The peace you feel when you realize how small we really are and how immeasurably large the universe is must be experienced every so often. I went to bed that night so very grateful for all that I was able to experience.

The activity just kept coming as the next morning I went on a sunrise tour and listened to an Aboriginal guide talk about life in the Bush. We sat in caves with ancient paintings and learned how to kill a kangaroo. The Aboriginals in Uluru have been there for 40,000 years, surviving on nature and ritual alone. Their culture is primitive (by our standards) but made sense to me. Duties are assigned to individuals in the group and responsibility is shared. They do not need currency (although, after the White Man came, of course things changed) and because there is no such thing as “possession”, they actually do not have a word for any number over 5. They figure if they have to count over 5, then there is too much of one thing and someone is being greedy. I was reminded of the Native Americans a lot when learning about the original Australians. Sometimes I think I should go back to school for a degree in anthropology as I ate up the information readily after years of enduring inadequate history lessons from teachers who should have retired long ago. Why we repeat patterns of dominance and cultural genocide throughout the world, I will never understand. I was, however, happy to learn what I could and tried to let the heartbreak of the damage that has been done to this indigenous culture go. We can only fix the future and maybe, some of us, can learn from the past.

Our last full day in Uluru was spent riding camels (a smile spreads across my face at the memory of these spectacular creatures) and walking through the Olgas, another huge natural rock formation in the middle of the desert. We watched the sun set this time, while drinking champagne (I barely finished my glass as trepidation over my health loomed) and learning more about Australian culture from our guides. I have to say I was very impressed by the tours given at the Ayer’s Rock Resort. Everything was professional, on time, well organized, and the people were fantastic. I’ve never laughed so hard with strangers in a foreign country. I was so at ease, and they made everyone on board feel welcome and comfortable. By the end of this last tour I was chatting with two older British men and a woman from Africa like we’d known each other for years. I love that about traveling. You build relationships quickly and with genuine interest.

Leaving Uluru was hard. I enjoyed the quiet beauty of the blood red landscape and the surreal hue of the bush. Flying over the Outback for the first time I swore I must have been hallucinating because the combination of the red earth, the mint blue shrubbery amidst light green trees seemed impossible. However, standing on that ground, carefully walking around ancient rock formations while listening to birds you’ve never heard before, feeling small but so very alive was incredible. The dry heat restored my lungs, and the relaxed atmosphere of the culture soothed my routine bouts of anxiety from teaching 90 Indonesian students on a regular basis.

There was less than 24 hours of turn around time between when I finally got back to Malang (suffered mechanical issues on the plane into Bali that delayed us 6 hours) and when I had to leave again for the island of Sulawesi to attend a teaching conference. My saving grace right now is the other English Language Fellows. We’re all fresh from vacations with stories to tell, wishing we had more time to transition. These ten wonderful people provide the perfect buffer to the abrasive and daunting environment I’ve returned to. Today alone went down as typically Indonesian as I watched teachers answer their cell phones while participating in training workshops and sat above crushed cigarette butts littering the tile floor of a University building. Let’s just hope I can keep the Fever at bay for the second half of my time overseas...

Tid Bits for Turkey Day

Warning: This blog entry is a series of random events that have occurred as of late. Or, things that would never happen in the States.

To begin: the other night I was sitting on my living room couch, talking to a friend after a hard days work. Suddenly, like a trail of black dust blowing past, I see a large rat silently scurry across my floor, coming from the Master bedroom headed towards its apparent refuge under my refrigerator. I didn’t scream, I just pulled my feet up under myself and waited for the “Rassie” (Rat + Lassie, named by my friend Cappy due to its polite nature and intelligence at having avoided thus far the poison I’d placed for it) to return to the place from whence it came. My constant exposure to cockroaches, ants, and flying insects must have dulled my fear of critters over these past three months.

Today I was teaching a makeup class for my Drama students outdoors. The breeze was just right and the sun shone bright and nourishing. One of those days where I wonder to myself: “Wait, what month is it? November? Where am I?” I’m giving instructions to my class for a group project when a large, gorgeous black and white spotted butterfly lands directly on my left hand, which was formerly gesticulating to make a point. My whole body stopped, looked, and smiled at the stunning creature. My students echoed an “Awwwww, Miss! So cute!” as I stared, dumbly transfixed by the sheer joy of that moment. Then, just as nonchalantly, the butterfly wandered off. A.Mazing.

Later, I’m at my desk reading a 20 year old girl’s journal during a tutoring session and notice that she used the term “youngsters” and “youths” a few times each. Being quite "youthful" and naive herself, I had to chuckle at the word choice.

On to even more unrelated topics: the other day I was asked to attend a meeting. Some sort of Indonesian Secretariat was going to visit my University to monitor the “Native” teachers currently employed at BU from other countries. At the initial meeting with the Rector’s Assistant to discuss this upcoming visit, the Japanese and Korean lecturers show up to also talk about what will happen the next day when the government officials come to ensure the international agreements between our bosses and Brawijaya are up-to-date and kosher. Having never met before, we introduce ourselves, and the Japanese instructor looks at me and goes, “So, how many classes do you teach?” I replied, “Four”. He burst out laughing for what seemed like five minutes. “Four? Really? What a waste of resources!! Ah ha ha ha!” I did not think this was particularly funny. I replied, somewhat reluctantly, that I also privately tutor my writing students 6 hours a week, and have other responsibilities outside of the classroom (and that my contract limits my teaching time to 12 hours per week in order to make room for cultural activities and outside speaking engagements). I then ask him, “How many do you teach?” He shrugs and pretends to be cavalier, “Oh, 12 or 14 maybe”. I inquired as to how that’s even possible, and he says, “Well, that’s what I’m planning to ask the Monitors tomorrow. Ah ha ha ha!” In that moment, I’m quite thankful I hail from a country where sanity and “me time” are priorities.

The next day the meeting with these said “officials” (two women about my age) goes well, albeit the 45 minutes I spent sitting there while they all spoke Bahasa (which I still don’t) and then turned to me and said (in perfect English), “We already know about your program, and your documents are up to date. All we want to know is if you teach private lessons outside of the classroom?” I replied: “My contract states I cannot, therefore, no, I don’t.” They smiled, “That’s the answer we wanted to hear. Thank you.” Why I had to sit there for almost an hour to answer that one question, I don’t know. That’s Indo for you...efficiency is not their forte.

To switch gears again: while riding to school this week, I’ve been passing temporary holding pens housing multiple goats. These goats are being gathered and in preparation for Eidul-Adha, the Feast of Sacrifice. On Friday the 27th, all of these goats will be slaughtered to symbolize the sacrifice of Abraham’s son Ismael. One third of the meat from each goat will be donated to the homeless (the other two thirds typically go to family and friends of the person responsible for the slaughter). Every time I drive past the poor creatures, I want to run towards them, throw open the gates, and shout for them to run free. Now, I know I’m not a vegetarian, but I try to stay away from more exotic meat like veal. It’s wonderful that homeless individuals will not have to worry about where to find food this weekend, however, I cannot imagine the amount of blood that will flow two days from today. Right after Thanksgiving. Which I will miss for the first time in 31 years. Ouch. I’d much rather be on my Grandmother’s farm with my Aunt, cousin, the llama, chickens, puppies and a turkey...

And finally, last week, I almost had a roommate. I was pulled into the Dean’s office Monday afternoon after just returning from a weekend in Central Java with the other Fellows, when I was informed that a visiting lecturer from Australia (she’s Indonesian but received her PhD in Oz) was returning to BU for three months and was going to move in with me. That day. I was asked to hand over my house keys to make copies, and was told that I would have to move my clothes out of the ONE closet in the house and move my personal papers from the ONE desk to a different location as soon as possible. Stunned to say the least, I asked the Dean if RELO (“Regional Location Officer”, aka, my boss) knew about this, and she replied that no, they did not, but if I wanted to call them and inform them of this change, I could. I walked out of her office stunned at the complete and utter professional disrespect that was just shown to me, and called my boss’s assistant in Jakarta. She assured me that she would look into this right away, and apologized for the very un-Indonesian manner in which this situation was handled. For the next 24 hours my counterpart, my co-teachers, and my friends went to the Dean on my behalf and explained that when it says, “private accommodation” in my contract, it means I ought to live alone. Apparently, I was told, the Dean chuckled and responded, “She has a key to her bedroom, that’s private enough. Besides, that house is too large for one woman to be living in by herself”. When I heard this, my claws came out. I’ve been living independently for 13 years, and when I’ve had roommates, I’ve chosen them. They have not been plopped down into my house by an outsider who knows diddly squat about me or my history, completely out of the blue, with no warning whatsoever.

Thankfully, my boss’s assistant in Jakarta, Dian, is a rock star and solved this issue by the following afternoon. Because the Dean did not sign my contract (in fact, I learned later, refused to) and because the house I live in belongs to the Rector of the University, she technically has no right to “assign” me roommates (especially not ones 25 years my senior). Her “misunderstanding” of the term private was egregious, and a formal complaint was filed against her with the Department of Cultural Affairs. I was informed, by the Rector himself (a very kind and generous man) that his “extra” house was to be used by me and me alone for the duration of my contract, and that he was sorry that I was put in such a position. I thanked him profusely.

The copied set of “my” house keys were eventually returned to me, four days later, by the Rector’s assistant, only after the Dean approached me and told me she wanted to “destroy” them, to which I informed her that my counterpart should actually have them in case of an emergency, to which she told me she had to “check with the Rector” before she could agree to “not destroying them” because they “should never have been made in the first place”. Precisely.

Seriously... Only in Indo...

Temple of my Familiar

Two months ago, had you told me I’d be doing the Cha Cha with a Indonesian man in his fifties while his ten year old son circled us on his scooter, I would have suggested you see a doctor. Lo and behold, yours truly is learning to ballroom dance. And cook. As I type this I’m enjoying a meal of grilled eggplant, onions, green beans, and chicken breast, soaked in lemon, extra virgin olive oil, oregano and garlic (while drinking a San Miguel and listening to Billy Idol). Earlier today I showed my “slow” Writing class the “Yes We Can” music video/Obama speech as an example of persuasive writing, and they walked out of class singing “We want change! I want change! Yes. We. Can!” To top it all off, I rode to my dance instructor’s house this evening without getting lost. Didn’t have to turn around once. That is the first time this has happened in two weeks. It’s been a darn good day.

My previous hours since my last entry have been rough. Hence, my lack of updates. I simply refuse to blog if I’m going to be a Debbie Downer, thus, my waiting patiently for a day like today to shine on me. Flashback to last week...

The education system here is set up like a construction site without a blue print. You have an idea in your head, but no standards, albeit some extra wood and maybe a few nails. Perhaps, there are a few people willing to build something, when they get around to it. In the end, you might get a structure that stands upright, with a roof, and perhaps a door, but it don’t keep ya dry.

I teach three sections of Writing 4 (and one section of Drama 2). That’s the highest level of writing offered for undergraduates studying English. Our task is the argumentative essay. Each class averages 30 students. Each class meets ONCE a week for 100 minutes. Each class usually has only one teacher, who also has 7 other classes, over 200 students, a family, and administrative responsibilities (that is not an exaggeration). There is no one on one interaction or tutoring unless the student finds the teacher, on a good day, and takes 10 minutes of their time...which means a student’s chances at improving are slim to none.

Now consider that Writing 1, 2, and 3 are prerequisites for not only Writing 4, but also for most other classes students needed to graduate on time. Which means, if they are held back in writing, they are held back from most other required courses. There are no standards for grading: each teacher has their own rules. There is no set curriculum, and there are no text books (but plenty of photocopies...which the STUDENTS have to copy themselves...when they can afford to). ‘You tube’ is banned on campus. The wireless network at my University will not allow you to see it. Back in the States, I used you tube weekly as a teaching tool, and had text books galore, for free, from the publishers. All supplemental “handouts” were made by me, for free, and given to the students in class. Not here. I try to make copies for my students and the other teachers click their tongues at me and tell me I’ll go broke if I keep doing favors the kiddies. I tell them, where I come from, students are broke. They shake their heads and remind me in Indonesia students live with their parents and get monthly allowances. Right. Silly me.

The obvious result of this “system” is that 50% of my students cannot write their way out of a paper bag. Nor can they express themselves to me verbally. Nor have they EVER written creatively. I’ve been tutoring students (54 to be exact) for about a month now and some of them even plagiarized their JOURNAL entries. They did not understand that journals are about freedom of expression (ie: there are no rules aside from stick to the topic given). What? No thesis statements?? But Teacher, I don’t get it...

After realizing quite quickly there was a problem here, I met with my three team teachers and explained that I would need their help. It’s physically impossible for me to meet the needs of my entire class with such varied degrees of ability, thus, they were going to have to give up a few hours a week to asses the students who are below level and work with me on finding some sort of solution. The first meeting went well. The subsequent meetings have been me sitting at my desk, waiting for the other teachers to show up, and then watching them walk out of our meeting when their cell phones rang, not to mention them asking me what exactly it was I wanted them to “do” with the students once they made tutoring appointments with them. Insert me banging my head against a map of Indonesia here.

However, there are diamonds hidden in every dark cave. I had a student come to me last week who is one of my rare exceptions. Her writing is brilliant; her ideas are critical, accurate, and well crafted. Since she’s stellar, I told her she could move ahead of the pack, and so she came to me with a journal about schizophrenia. It started out with her talking about the film “A Beautiful Mind”, and moved to her admitting she is a schizophrenic. She then proceeded to advise her reader on how one can be a motivated, positive, and healthy mentally ill individual living and thriving in “normal” society. This woman is Moslem (like 85% of my students), and as she read her words out loud to me, her jillbob (the head covering) clung tightly around her face, neck, and hair. It was all I could do to not weep with elation and relief. FINALLY! Someone direct, shrewd, honest, and brave. Someone who is willing to stand alone, to stare normality in the face and tell it how very boring it can be.

I cannot wait to see her again.

This leads to me follow up on my Halloween Party. It happened, finally. My rookie mistake (as Momma Goose would say) was to expect anyone to show up during the first hour it was scheduled. I’d forgotten that Friday is a very holy day, and Indonesians must eat rice before they can eat chocolate, and so, I sat alone, with the Tech guy, for 45 minutes...feeling quite small and neglected by my students who had told me they were coming dressed up like Balinese monsters. One by one, a little head peeked around the door frame, giggles filled the hallway, and I see my students clustered in a smiling bunch. I beaconed for them to enter, and they shook their heads fiercely, leaving me quite puzzled. I hadn’t even started the scary movie, what on earth was their problem? The one student in the room with me at that time informed me that these girls could not actually come inside the room without their friends next to them. They move in a group. Always. And that’s how it began. People waiting in the hallway, coming in with another girl’s hand attached to their forearm, bowing slightly to me as they passed. Hence my flood gates of affection towards my schizophrenic dare devil willing to brake the mold.

I suppose I have my hands full (and now I know why they sent me to this island). But I’m learning to ride my motorbike to the store, the coffee shop, my friend’s houses, the gym...alone. In traffic. On streets with no name or names I cannot possibly pronounce while passing ojeks and oncots (public modes of transport). Maps are useless to me as I need to see the places where I turn as opposed to memorize road names, so I'm learning, week by week, how to get myself where I need to go. It feels good to grow out of the toddler stage of culture shock and enter a level of autonomy...

I did visit some temples this weekend from the 10th and 14th centuries, and bathed in outdoor pools of crystal clear water before meditating with my Hindu friends over incense inside dark, cool enclosures against well worn stones smoothed over by centuries of hope and prayer. I’ve met some lovely people and now know I’m not the only white woman in Malang. I bought patio furniture so that I may eat my meals under the orange moon, or with the morning birds and my cup of instant coffee (surprisingly tasty).

I’m adjusting. Colors are no longer striking dissonant chords in my brain, nor am I simply walking to and from but not actually going anywhere. I am here now. And with that presence comes a letting go of my former life, of the past in general. Which is why, as I sat in that first temple this weekend and placed my hands palm up on bent knees, my eyes spilled over with a mixture of grief and gratitude.

Back in Black

My first movie theater experience in Indo was awful, and quite eye opening. No wonder my students are writing journals about vapid Americans having “free sex” (sex before marriage) and the “liberal/dirty” behavior of us Westerners. They actually think we walk down the street, point to someone we find attractive, and go home with them that very night. Katherine Heigl should be ashamed of herself. She’s (almost) turned me off of Dr. Izzie Stevens forever. For a woman who I thought could actually act, she’s not doing any of us American ladies any favors. Granted, if I knew I was a walking international paycheck....well, I hope I’d still make better character choices. That’s right. I saw “The Ugly Truth”, and left with a smutty aftertaste. It was like a bad dream, except a Hollywood studio actually spent time and money to film it, with real actors, and ended up with not a single shred of redeemable “art” to show for it. What a shame. So, why did I go? It was the best choice available. The other films, believe it or not, were worse. The crap that gets distribution over here is embarrassing. I was ashamed. My country is better than that. We have integrity. We’re not shallow puppets. Except, how are my students supposed to believe that when all they see is utter cinematic slop?

It’s been a heck of a few weeks. Let’s start with Halloween. I decided to throw a Halloween Party (Indo style) for my students so that they could experience the creepy fabulousness of one of our most incredible holidays. I like Halloween, very much. On the last day of October, we don’t stuff ourselves with too much Cool Whip (I admit I’m just as guilty as the next girl), forget that Christopher Columbus was a genocidal murderer and call it a day, nor do we celebrate the birth of a child from the womb of a virgin, nor is it a day about bombs bursting in air. Instead, we play, we create, we cross over into the unseen (or, undead, depending on who you ask). Where else do adults who don’t do theater or film for a living get to put putty on their faces, wear ridiculous clothes, and be someone else for a night? Granted, our teeth hate us the next day, but we have the best dental hygiene of any other country I’ve seen, so it’s forgivable.

Anyway, I’d planned the “party” for Friday the 30th, and have been trying to confirm the time and place on campus for over a week when the head of the English Department came to speak to me. She said the Dean had asked her (not me, mind you...that would be too direct for South East Asia) “Why did Courtney have to start with Halloween as her holiday/cultural event? Why couldn’t she have started with, say, Thanksgiving instead?” (here we go with the genocide again) It just so happens the Dean and Vice Dean of my University are not going to be in town this weekend, and so they’d asked two other faculty members to be at my party, making sure the students arrive in costumes that were appropriate. There is to be no dancing, no live music, and obviously no booze (that I of course understood...I do know I’m not in Kansas anymore). I was given three hours, total, and the students had to be out by 8pm (mind you, I do teach at a University). I was told to “keep it simple”, and to show a movie that did not have too much violence. Now, I do know that part of my job is to respect the new and different culture I’m in, and to adhere to sensitive boundaries, but 8PM? NO LIVE MUSIC? Do they know we’re in Indo? There was LIVE music, ON CAMPUS, YESTERDAY, DURING my Writing class. I could hardly concentrate while I was teaching topic sentences because someone was singing karaoke 20 feet away, outside, at 2pm. Not to mention there were two men sharing coffee and a smoke on the other side of the wall behind my white board. Instead of hearing the sounds of my students’ brains digesting the material, I heard a conversation steeped in fumes. I had to stop class, poke my head outside the door, and politely ask the men to take their conversation elsewhere, as there was a class being conducted 3 feet away.

So, back to Halloween. The students have been so excited. This is the first Halloween Party at BU’s campus, ever, and they very much want to gather together, dress up, eat sweets, and watch a scary movie together. I’ve kept the agenda innocuous and have tried to find an exciting prize for the costume contest. However, because the Dean and Vice Dean want to check up on me, it has been rescheduled, for a week after the Day of the Dead. I guess I should count my blessings. It’s just hard to do when I know my friends back home are having a Hellishly good time walking through amazing haunted houses, carving pumpkins, dancing to Thriller, buying fake blood, and reliving nights of trick or treating. Ah, Indo. What a G rated web you weave (except when you go to the cinema)...

Oh, and the love songs! So help me...my department swoons over saccharine ballads of the heart. They pump all day long while I’m trying to grade quizzes, and seem to favor the pipes of Celion Dion, Brian Adams, and LeAnne Rimes. If I hear “My Heart Will Go On” one more time I’m going to start eating ink pens with my Nasi Ayem (fried chicken). I think they have a total of TWO CDs on shuffle, and they’ve had them longer than I’ve been addicted to coffee. Why they don’t branch out into tunes past 1996, I’m not entirely sure. Except, I think it’s related to this “G” rated phenomenon. It’s like being stuck in a doctor’s office, or an elevator, for 8 hours every day. The brain, as much as it tries not to, absorbs the ideas of love everlasting and eternal dedication, and all hard edges start to soften as the hours wane. By the end of the day I leave feeling...fuzzy, kind of like a Sesame Street character, or a Walk Disney reject. Sometimes I have to put in my ipod before I get on my bike and zone out to the Stones/Rob Zombie/Metallica/Busta/ACDC just to get the blood flowing again. It helps having a motorcycle waiting for you in the parking lot, I have to admit.

However, when I need a solid dose of realism, I can just pay attention to some of my male co-workers across the way. Yesterday, one of them belched, loudly and proudly, three times. I’ve also seen them picking their noses (my students seem to like to go digging for gold as well) as if they were, well, raised in a barn. Once, I saw a man blowing a snot rocket off the side of a boat. As I’ve noted in previous locations to certain individuals, not only does privacy not exist, but there is no division between “outside” and “inside” over here, and I mean for that to have a double meaning.

Speaking of privacy not existing...I was recently asked by a co-worker if I had a problem with the meals I’ve been receiving at the office. You see, a group of us “order” boxed lunches to be delivered to our desks daily, but you never know what is lurking under the lid. The other day it was fish. The entire thing. Head and tail included, guts in tact. In Malang, they serve you the whole sha-bang, and the locals pick at the meat and discard the bones. I, instead, chose to put my little Nemo aside (he was looking at me funny), lost most of my appetite, and threw the box away. My actions apparently were reported and circulated, because days later, I was being questioned as to why I did not finish my lunch (by someone who was not present at the time of my disposal of Mr. Fishy). Oh, and when I do finish the TINY portions they give me in under 15 minutes because I forgot my snack that day and haven’t eaten in five hours, I’m told I should eat slower. I guess it’s permissible to eat a fried fish head (slowly) if it’s kosher to burp in front of co-workers while checking your email. Silly me. I ought to refer to my barn yard manual more often.

One more thing I have to note that puzzles me before I retire with my book (side note: I highly recommend The Spell of the Sensuous by David Abram. Even if you don’t teach a language or are not a teacher/English nerd at all, this novel is an exquisite pleasure. Thank you Vanessa for your recommendation), is pulsa availability. “Pulsa” is the word for minutes on your hand phone (cell). People don’t have phone bills with plans out here. They pay for minutes as they go (at least the ones I know). Thus, there are pulsa “dealers” all over the place, both in phone stores, in private vendor stalls, and in the office. My dealer is a sweet man who works at a desk down the hall from mine. I don’t know how he does it, but I give him money, and he adds minutes to my phone. The other day I approached him requesting he “top me up”, and he shook his head. “Sorry Miss, today not good day for pulsa”. I asked why, and he said he didn’t know, but that I should try again tomorrow. Having a fantastic memory for minor details and a horrible memory for important things like where I put my keys, I returned the following day. Again, the smile and head shake. “Bad day for pulsa again?” I asked. He nodded. “Sorry Miss. Try again maybe tomorrow?” Fast forward to day three. Apparently, the pulsa Gods were in a better mood and communication has been restored.

That, in a nutshell, is my experience of Indo. Some days it works, and some days are just not good. Ah well, at least I can hop on my bike tomorrow morning and ride to school, invisible broomstick tucked in my backpack, Back in Black pulsing in my head.

P.S. I've decided to go to Jakarta and spend Halloween with Momma Goose and Cappy, dance, dress up, and feel somewhat American for a night. Thank god for Lion Air.

A rather short, but full, weekend

I blew my very first fuse at 7am today trying to charge my camera for a morning of monkey watching. The electric pop sparked behind the outlet, and so I got ready vowing to simply remember my day rather than document it. My counterpart (Iis), her adorable husband Reza, and Reza's 9 year old little sister and I drove about 20 minutes away to a water park/monkey hang out. Buses, children, and families clamored outside the gates. Peddlers hawking their goods, beggars asking for money. The same grey monkeys I saw in Bali were all over the grounds. At first I was enamored, as I always am with animals, until I saw the monkey on a chain. A man sat in a folding chair not far from the main entrance, a small drum in his hand. At the end of a "leash" sat a monkey, dressed in clothing, wearing a hat, and hissing at his audience of mildly amused pedestrians. I stood stone still, my hands over my mouth, as this man jerked the chain back and forth, made the monkey do flips, made him stop, made him pick things up with his hands, made him behave like a circus freak. It took all I had not to walk right up to him and...well...my Mother taught me better than to say what. I was enraged. Animals do not like cages or chains. They need wide open spaces, good healthy food, and peace and f*#king quiet. Not a drum that bangs endlessly in their ears, or people throwing peanuts and then screaming when they peel the shells and ask for more, unable to find their own food.

We kept walking. We had fun on the bumper cars, merry go round, and dirt bikes. People stopped to take pictures of me on the massive three wheelers because, as usual, Bules are a hot commodity. This time I actually smiled. They were genuinely excited to have me there, and shoot, who doesn't like such attention? However, the reality of Indo was inescapable, despite my moments of joy. The small lake where we went row boating was filled with trash. Small fish swam over forks, plates, plastic water bottles, and god knows what else. Once ashore, I saw a monkey up a tree chewing on a dirty, abandoned sandal. CHEWING it. Like it contained actual food. Next to him perched a monkey nibbling on a plastic spoon. Below him, a monkey trying to eat the lid of a soda can. Looking closer, I noticed these monkeys had growths, bubble like additions to their jaws that looked like small white marbles protruding from their cheeks. Many of them. Cysts? Tumors? Who knows. My stomach turned. Walking out of this "park", I tried to rationalize what I'd seen. However, I cannot escape the fact that animals are treated terribly in this country. Cats are kicked, tails are cut off, and rats run wild.

I came home to two rooms that had light and thankfully, a fridge that was still cold. Iis had found the circuit breaker on the outside of my house and flipping one of those switches seemed to turn on a few bulbs. I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the dirt off my floors, and doing the usual Sunday tid bits one does when one doesn't have to be anywhere (or when one is trying to avoid doing school work). The sun set with still no air conditioning or DVD watching in clear sight, and so I took a walk around the homestead, looked in every room, and could not find the answer to my dilemma. Seeing no alternative, I sent my counterpart a text message, and she agreed to come over and help. She lives 30 minutes away, with her husband, in-laws, and his family. She's incredible to even offer to come back after driving me around all morning.

While waiting for her arrival, the white cat who has visited me in the past showed up at my door once again. Her eyes still in a daze, her fur still matted. I fished out the chicken in my fridge, filled a bowl with filtered water, and left it out for her. She pecked at it, and snuggled next to the water. I noticed her gait was a little slow, and her hind legs were spread wider than usual. Dear God, "Pus pus" (one of the names for cats in these parts) is going to have kittens.

Iis and Reza arrived, took one look at Pus pus and agreed that she was indeed pregnant. Reza took three steps into my sitting room (yes, I actually have one...this place is the biggest house I will never pay for in my life, better appreciate it while I can) and found the second circuit breaker box. He flipped a switch, and the air was back on. With my lights. In under 20 seconds my problem was fixed. How I had missed the box labeled "Curcuit Breaker", I don't want to know. Feeling terrible that I made them drive out to my place for the second time today, I offered them cookies, teaching materials, etc. We decided on a night I would take them out to dinner this week, and then I mentioned the cat. I simply cannot let her deliver kittens when she's obviously sick and no one gives a hoot whether she lives or dies. Turns out, Reza's Uncle is a vet.

Part of me wonders if Miss Pus Pus found her way into my house and flipped a switch of her own to rig this situation. After they left (books and cookies in hand), I filled a shoe box with a towel, a bowl with tuna fish, and set both on my front porch, just in case.

Looks like I've been adopted by a cat.

In other, more academic news, school is going well. I had my first formal presentation on Saturday (yes, my day off, but, you have to show up when invited to such things) where I spoke on Language BA programs in the States as the Language Department at Brawijaya is revamping their curriculum and they wanted to know how things are done back at the ranch. However, I had to wait and listen to 4 hours of Bahasa before it was my turn. At about hour one I felt completely ridiculous and totally unqualified. I need to get on those language lessons, and fast. (The actual presentation went fairly well.)

I'm also tutoring my writing students outside of class on how to, well, write better. This is a daunting task as I have over 70 of them. 60 of them really need my help but their classes meet once a week and there are about 30 of them per class. Thus, I've started a program of sorts where I sit for a half hour with any student who signs up to see me, voluntarily, and we review a one page journal entry on a topic they enjoy writing about. As exhausting as this is, it seems to be working. My students are coming back to see me at least twice per assignment. They thank me often, and they leave feeling, hopefully, a little more capable. I'm so proud of them. And so lucky to be here.

Before I sign off I have to mention that I start bike lessons tomorrow (mine is a standard and I've never actually driven a motorcycle before). Watch out world. This lady's got her very own hog and she intends to ride it like the wind (while adhering to the speed limit and wearing a helmet at all times, of course)! Goodnight ya'll...